by Olivia Dade
Somehow, he knew who must have arrived before he even saw her.
Short and tough-looking, with a pugnacious jaw and a dark ponytail. Clearly unconcerned about insulting others. Holding her very expensive twig with casual ease. She could only be one woman.
“Natasha.” Sam sighed. “I didn’t even speak of the devil. So why are you here?”
Yup, that’s the one.
“Ah, idioms. One of the lowest forms of loser talk.” With a flick of her fingers, she dismissed him and turned back to Miles. “What do you say?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “I think Nat just demonstrated why you’d enjoy being on my team more than hers. So what do you think?”
Miles blinked at the two of them, half-convinced he was hallucinating. What didn’t they understand? Hadn’t they noticed his empty sleeve?
Tired of dancing around the subject, he let go of Mary’s hand, shrugged off his jacket, and revealed the T-shirt he wore beneath. The one with a pinned left sleeve, which he jabbed in their direction. “See? I can’t do it. You’ll both need to find some other guy who has two arms.”
They stared at him, unconcerned.
“Why?” Sam asked. “If you don’t want to play, no big deal. But if you’re interested, please don’t let a missing arm stop you.”
Miles’s jaw dropped. “I can’t even hold my stick anymore. How could I possibly play?”
“You use your armpit as your top hand.” Natasha shrugged. “Or get a prosthetic arm. Whatever works best for you.”
Mary appeared to be in full-on cringe mode. But she didn’t dispute what her friends had said, and a thoughtful expression was beginning to replace the discomfort evident on her face. Did she actually think he’d consider joining the team?
No. No way was he humiliating himself like that. “Even apart from balance issues, wouldn’t that hurt like hell? I mean, my armpit isn’t exactly tough and calloused.”
Natasha tapped her foot on the concrete floor. “You can tape the living fuck out of the knob of your stick and desensitize your damn armpit. So what do you say? Are you in or out?”
“Out.” Swallowing his bitterness, he managed to add, “But thanks for the invitation.”
“Whatever.” She slung her stick over her shoulder. “Bye, Con. Bye, Mary. I’ll be skating against you again in a couple of weeks, Wolcott. You might want to wear extra pads on your ass, since it’s most definitely going to get kicked.”
Her strut to the front entrance drew the attention of the remaining players, who regarded her with mingled affection, fear, and respect. She didn’t deign to offer them a single glance. Instead, she banged out of the rink the same way she’d torn up the ice—with complete disregard for anything but her goal and how fast she could get there.
“I love that woman,” Con muttered, “but she’s a fucking steamroller.”
Once Nat disappeared into the parking lot, Sam turned back to Miles. “I know she’s a pain in the butt, but she’s not wrong. She used to have another guy on her team with one arm. He eventually joined the National Standing/Amputee Hockey Team, but he played with us for a few seasons. One of our league’s best defenders.”
“National Standing/Amputee Hockey Team?” Mary interjected.
“It’s made up of amputees who can skate standing.” Sam’s eyes, a warm brown, caught Miles’s. “If you decided to join the amateur league, the dudes on that team or the American Amputee Hockey Association could probably give you some tips. Stuff like how to tie your skates and deal with your stick.”
Jesus, couldn’t these people let it go? “That’s not going to be an issue. I appreciate the information, though.”
“No problem.” After hoisting his enormous duffel bag, Sam turned to Con with raised brows. “Are you ready to head home, love? Or do you want to ogle Mary’s date a little longer?”
Not a hint of embarrassment crossed his wife’s face. “Saw that, did you?”
“I think astronauts on the International Space Station were able to watch you drool over him.” He shook his head at her, his lips twitching. “It’s not nice to lust after your friend’s man. Especially in front of your own.”
“You’ll survive. And she knows I might look, but I’d never touch.” Con hugged Mary. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, honey.”
“See you soon, Miss Mary.” Sam gave her a quick hug and offered Miles a fist bump. “Nice to meet you, Miles.”
“Yeah.” Con gave Miles one last head-to-toe perusal. “Very nice.”
“Control yourself, wife,” Sam said, and then dragged her toward the parking lot.
When the door shut behind the couple, Mary took Miles’s hand but didn’t say a word. Which suited him perfectly, since he couldn’t seem to speak or shut down the thoughts that kept screaming in his brain.
Why did they have to bring it up? I don’t want to talk about my arm. Shit, I don’t even want to think about it.
The best evening he’d spent in recent memory now felt tainted. Ruined by the reminder of what he’d lost and tried so fucking hard to forget. If only other people would let him.
Still, none of the blame belonged to Mary. So he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. She gazed up at him, her dark eyes tentative and worried.
“It’s okay,” he said, even though it wasn’t. Not really.
She nodded, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. “What do you want to do now?”
“Let’s get you back to the cabin before you turn into a pumpkin.” He mustered up a smile and watched her shoulders relax a little. “It’s late, and I don’t want you overtired when you’re driving home.”
The fifteen minutes they spent in the car felt more like thirty. He didn’t want to share his thoughts, and Mary didn’t speak either, so they both sat listening to the radio without a word exchanged.
When they reached his driveway, he cleared his throat and tried to shake off his bad mood. “Want to come in for a moment?”
She studied him for a long time before answering. “Sure.”
Keep it light. No more drama for tonight.
“This morning, I saw a documentary about Cuba you might like,” he said as they walked up the porch steps. “But I forget the title. Let me check my DVR.”
Her brow smoothed, the worry lines there disappearing. “Sounds great.”
When he let them inside and turned on his TV, though, the familiar face staring back at him caused them both to stiffen.
A voice boomed over his speakers, too loud in the dim hush of his cabin. “What’s next for Camille Lane? The Hollywood Entourage found out in an exclusive interview!”
Fumbling with the remote, he changed channels before he could hear another word.
That lovely face was an unwelcome reminder of his past, come back to taunt him at just the wrong moment. So he knew exactly why he’d flipped to another channel so quickly. What he couldn’t explain: why Mary suddenly seemed to have withdrawn a million miles away, even as she lingered within arm’s reach.
“Mary?” He touched her hand. “Are you okay?”
To his surprise, she shook her head.
“No.” She blinked up at him, her big brown eyes wary. “No, I’m not sure I am.”
11
Whenever she saw Camille Lane on screen, Mary sympathized a tiny bit with the paparazzi. Encountering Miles’s most famous ex-girlfriend in the flesh must be like visiting the Grand Canyon. Faced with that sort of breathtaking gorgeousness, who wouldn’t want to take a picture? Or a hundred?
“What’s wrong?” Miles moved closer, surrounding her with his warmth. So why did she still feel so cold?
She shook her head, unable to translate her thoughts into words. Despite what she’d just said, did she really want to have this conversation now? After an already tense evening? Wouldn’t it be better simply to say good night and save her insecurities for another time? Say, the next millennium?
“That was Camille. I dated her for a f
ew months last year.” Miles’s voice was cautious. “Maybe you’ve heard of her?”
Over the past decade, Mary had seen the woman in countless magazines, watched her walk innumerable red carpets. Camille Lane, formerly the face of a major cosmetics company and currently an award-winning dramatic actress, required no introduction. And even without having seen her on TV moments ago, Mary would have been able to picture her in excruciating detail.
Camille’s curls were cropped short, emphasizing her long, regal neck, and her impeccably tailored dresses always clung to her slim figure in precisely the right places. The bright colors of those dresses contrasted beautifully with her famously flawless complexion, making her skin look like ebony satin, dark and smooth and glowing.
In her spindly, outrageously high heels, she towered above most of her costars, and she walked in those heels like she was wearing bedroom slippers. Mary would’ve broken an ankle within seconds. Diamonds—more than Mary had ever seen in one place, other than jewelry stores—dripped from Camille’s delicate ears and surrounded the face of the watch on her graceful wrist. Another small, discreet diamond stud winked from the side of her perfectly flared nostril.
Mary couldn’t even begin to guess how much all that jewelry cost. More than she made in a year as a librarian, she knew that for sure. Maybe more than she’d make in a lifetime.
And she certainly had no idea how Camille managed to maintain a figure like that.
Somehow, despite the abundance of her chest and backside, Camille appeared sleek and undeniably fit. Very much, in fact, like the exemplar of what Mary had hoped to achieve in California. She’d dreamed of that lithe strength, those muscles, those curves, as she’d rounded her coffee table for the thousandth time and listened to her stomach growl at night. But she’d never, ever achieved that kind of body. Instead, she’d only damaged her own.
Camille Lane’s sheer perfection astounded Mary. Always had.
And sweet mother of mercy, that woman was Miles’s ex. Which Mary had known, of course, but the unexpected reminder—of Miles’s life back in California, of the contrast between herself and his exes—was rattling her more than it should have.
With a shaking hand, Mary discreetly tried to smooth the hair escaping from the twist at the back of her head. “Yes, I know her.” A vast understatement. “I’m a huge fan of her work.”
And she was. The movie that had won the actress so many awards—The Quiet Dignity of Miss Charlotte Painbourne—had prompted Mary to empty several tissue packages in the theater, and even more when she’d re-watched the film at home. During the movie’s first hour, Camille had beautifully depicted Charlotte’s loneliness and grief at the tragic deaths of her entire family and every single one of her friends. And when poor Charlotte’s life took an even worse turn in the middle of the movie, the actress’s talent had truly shone through.
Mary offered honest praise. “I was amazed at how she portrayed a penniless yellow fever survivor lost alone in a blizzard with such subtlety. Some people would have made it seem over the top, but she paid respect to the story.”
Miles turned away with a sudden coughing fit, waving off Mary’s offer of help.
From her internet sleuthing, Mary had discovered that he and Camille had dated, but she hadn’t realized they’d been together for months. Months implied a certain amount of commitment. A certain amount of trust. And a certain amount of…well, intimacy.
Mary didn’t consider herself a jealous person, but the thought of Miles in bed with another, much more glamorous woman stung. More than it should have. After all, Mary didn’t really have that much of a claim on him, did she? Heck, he hadn’t even asked her to spend the night, and they’d been dating for two months already.
Did he just not want her enough? Or had he somehow grasped that she wasn’t ready yet? That she still had doubts about his future and her place in it?
Coughing fit over, Miles turned to Mary again. “I think you’d like her. She’s one of the most genuine and kind people I know. Always happy to lend a hand for charity or her friends. Whenever I needed help, she had my back, no questions asked.”
Everything Mary had read about Camille’s warmth and expansive heart was obviously true. And the loyalty Miles inspired in his ex didn’t surprise Mary one bit.
Miles was special. She saw it. Camille clearly saw it. Heck, millions of viewers across America and the world saw it too.
No matter what he said, Nice County wouldn’t hold him forever. Not with friends like Camille and millions of devoted fans eager for his return to California.
What in the world was Mary doing with a man like him?
She needed a minute to think. “I’d like to use your restroom, if that’s okay.”
His brows furrowed. “Are you crazy? Of course it’s okay. You’re my girlfriend. Live in there, if you’d like.”
A gentle rush of warmth displaced a smidgeon of Mary’s anxiety. Girlfriend. He was calling her his girlfriend, even though he’d dated one of the most famous women in Hollywood.
Maybe I do have a claim on him after all.
She made the familiar trip to his lone bathroom. And as she washed her hands after using the facilities, she looked up and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, under the harsh fluorescent lights.
Bags under her eyes. A tummy that refused to become concave, no matter how many crunches she suffered through. A hairline so high the mean kids in middle school had teased her about having a fivehead. No Hollywood glamour queen, not by a long shot. Pretty on a good day. Acceptable most days. And at the end of a long, tiring evening, maybe not even that.
Why did he want someone like her? Because he didn’t feel like he deserved or could get better, given his missing arm?
Feeling shakier than she had in years, she left the bathroom and made a beeline for her purse. “I’d better go. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
She got up on tiptoe and gave him a quick kiss, her eyes never quite meeting his.
When she turned away, though, he snagged her waist. “Mary? What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “It’s not important.”
“Anything that puts that look on your face is important.” He tugged her to the couch, and she didn’t resist. Not even when he settled her on his lap the way he always did after they’d watched a tearjerker. “If this is about Camille, I swear we’re just friends. We haven’t been together for over a year now, and there are no lingering romantic feelings.”
Her face buried against his chest, she sighed. “That’s not it.”
“Then what? Was I rude to your friends at the end of the game? If so, I apologize.”
He obviously wasn’t going to drop the subject. Like Sarah, he was prepared to badger her until she spoke her mind.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. I didn’t want to talk about this. Not tonight, anyway.
She tilted her head back to meet his eyes.
“I…” Her dry throat hurt when she swallowed. “I’ll never be like that, you know. No matter what I do.”
He blinked at her, lines etching themselves across his forehead. “Like what?”
“I’ll never look like Camille.” She flung a hand toward the TV. “Or any of your other exes. If that’s what you want—”
She cut herself off, unwilling to say the rest.
But as she’d predicted, he didn’t let her swallow the words. “If that’s what I want?”
“Why are you with me? I’ll never look like a model or a Hollywood star. Not even if I went hungry all the time and exercised until my hair fell out.”
His eyes widened, and he stared at her.
Now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop. “Are you dating me as a consolation prize, because you don’t think you can get the sort of woman you really want anymore? Not out here in rural Maryland? Not given your current circumstances?”
Oh, heavens. Why did I say all that? Why am I bothering him with my own stupid insecurities?
She held on to his shoulders for balance as he lifted his supportive hand from her back and cupped the side of her face. His hazel eyes had turned somber.
“I don’t understand why you would ever think that.” The brush of his thumb against her cheek, reverent and gentle, soothed her. “I don’t even know where to begin correcting you, because there are so many things wrong with what you just said.”
“But Camille—”
“Is a former model, yes. But is she more beautiful than you? No.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he leveled her a stern look of warning. “Let me finish, please.”
Reluctantly, she closed her mouth again.
“Okay, first things first. You’re perfect. Gorgeous. And before you decide I’m simply saying that to make you feel better, let me be clear. I’m not lying. I’m also not saying I love your personality, and that makes you gorgeous to me.” His face screwed up in a frown. “That came out wrong. I mean, your personality probably would make you beautiful to me no matter what, but a workaround isn’t necessary. Everything about you attracts me. Your mind. Your spirit. And definitely your body.”
The intensity of his gaze was making her so darn uncomfortable, she had to shut her eyes. “But she’s shiny, Miles. And I would kill myself in those heels she wears.”
“I’m a carpenter, Mary. I may be a carpenter who ended up on television, but I work with my hands. High-maintenance women and I don’t do well together over the long term. I’d rather be with a woman who’s gorgeous but would feel at home on a construction site.” He smiled at her. “Or in a rural cabin. I don’t want shiny. I’m not especially presentable myself most of the time.”
He suddenly went still, and she opened her eyes to see him stricken and pale. “I mean, I used to work with my hands. Not anymore, of course.”
She massaged his shoulders with loving care, soothing him the only way she could. Goodness knew, no words were adequate to encompass the raw loss she suddenly spied in every line of his face.
After a minute, he stilled her hands and refocused on her. “Let’s go back to what you said about dieting and exercise. Do you really think I want you to lose weight?”
